


Where the Lovelight Gleams

by sahiya



Series: Iron Dad, Spider Son, and Awkward Stepdad Steve [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Caretaking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Avengers, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Peter Parker, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Sick Character, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 23:09:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: “Hi,” Peter said weakly, looking up at Steve from where he was curled on his side in the bed––more or less the same position he’d been in since he’d arrived home from MIT, three days earlier, and quarantined himself because he didn’t want to expose Tony’s weak lungs and lousy immune system to his “finals week hell-flu.”Steve appreciated the gesture, but at this point it was clearly doing more harm than good.





	Where the Lovelight Gleams

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally self-indulgent Christmas fluff and I make no apologies. 
> 
> FYI, I think this will fit in, continuity-wise, with what I have planned for this 'verse, but it may end up slightly AU. TBD. 
> 
> The title is, of course, taken from everyone's favorite sad Christmas song, "I'll Be Home for Christmas." Many thanks to Fuzzyboo for beta reading!

Steve balanced the tray he was carrying on one hand and knocked with the other. “Peter?” he said quietly through the door. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah,” came the reply. 

Steve opened the door. “Hey,” he said as he slipped through and shut it behind him. He tried not to wince. He hadn’t known it was possible for a room to smell miserable, but Peter’s did––like fever sweat and sickness, but also something else, something that Steve’s brain just categorized as _sadness_. Steve had cracked a window to air the room out the day before while Peter was taking a bath, and he’d added eucalyptus oil to the humidifier that was running by the bed, but nothing seemed to help. 

“Hi,” Peter said weakly, looking up at Steve from where he was curled on his side in the bed––more or less the same position he’d been in since he’d arrived home from MIT, three days earlier, and quarantined himself because he didn’t want to expose Tony’s weak lungs and lousy immune system to his “finals week hell-flu.” 

Steve appreciated the gesture, but at this point it was clearly doing more harm than good. The isolation was making Peter depressed, which was not helping his immune system fight off the flu. Meanwhile, Tony was _driving Steve crazy_. Peter wouldn’t let Tony bring him soup or tea or cold towels, so instead, Tony hovered while Steve did it and then offered constructive feedback: 

“Did you let it steep long enough?” (Steve had.)

“That’s too much honey.” (It wasn’t.)

“Is that fat-free chicken broth? Fat-free chicken broth is basically just salt water.” (It was homemade stock out of the freezer.)

“When was the last time you changed his sheets? It’s been three days and he’s running a fever.” (Steve had changed them that morning.)

As far as Steve was concerned, this could not be over fast enough. Unfortunately, there was no relief in sight. He had a vague hope that May could talk some sense into Peter when she arrived the next morning, but she’d already tried over the phone, and all it’d done was get Peter worked up and halfway to an anxiety attack.

“Soup and tea,” Steve announced, setting the tray on the bedside table. “How are you feeling?”

“Not so good,” Peter mumbled. He let Steve help him sit up. “FRIDAY said my fever went back up.”

“That’s normal,” Steve said, even as he fretted. It _was_ normal for a fever to go up and down with the flu, but Peter had been sick for going on five days now, and he didn’t seem to be getting any better.

“I guess. I just... I’m really tired of this.” Peter sighed. “Tony was texting me. He says you guys are going to decorate this afternoon?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “The tree, at least. We can’t hold off any longer.” They’d tried, knowing that Peter would want to help, but tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

“I understand. It’s okay.” Peter picked up a spoon and took a brave bite of soup. 

Steve hesitated. “I know I’ve said this already, but I think you might be taking this too far. You can wear a mask. _Tony_ can wear a mask. We’ll wipe everything down with disinfectant.”

The spoon clutched in Peter’s hand trembled. “But what if... what if he gets pneumonia again? What if it’s my fault this time? Steve, I can’t... I can’t...”

“Shh, shh,” Steve said, putting his hand on the back of Peter’s neck. It was slick with sweat and much too hot. “It’s okay. Look, we need to figure this out. You can’t stay in here through Christmas.”

“I don’t want to,” Peter said, his voice turning suddenly watery. He dropped his spoon. “I really don’t want to. All I wanted when I was at school was to be home, with everyone. I don’t _want_ to spend Christmas alone, but I can’t risk Tony getting sick because of me. Stop trying to talk me into it.”

“Okay,” Steve said quietly, regretting having brought it up again. “I’m sorry.”

Peter sniffled. “Can you video chat me while you decorate?”

“Yeah, of course.” Steve got up and went into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. He folded it up in thirds and draped it over the back of Peter’s neck. 

Peter wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his pajama top. “This sucks.”

“It does,” Steve said. “I’m sorry.”

It took Peter longer than it should have to finish his soup and his tea, partly because he kept tearing up and partly, Steve suspected, because he didn’t want Steve to leave him alone again. Steve would have gladly stayed just to keep him company, but by the time the bowl was empty, Peter was starting to nod off over it. 

Steve cleared it away and helped him lie down. He re-wet the cloth and laid it over Peter’s forehead. “Take a nap,” Steve said. “Text me or Tony when you’re awake and we’ll video chat you in for decorating, all right?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Don’t mention it.” Steve stroked his hair back from beneath the cloth, and picked the tray up to take with him. 

Tony was lurking outside impatiently. “How’s he doing?” he asked, as soon as Steve emerged. “Is he upset that we’re decorating? Did you tell him I’d wear a mask? Goddammit, I’ll wear the Iron Man suit if that’s what it takes. Did you tell him that?”

“I did not,” Steve said. “I don’t know how practical it is for you to live in the suit until he’s well again.”

“Fuck practical,” Tony snapped, trailing Steve back to the kitchen. “Is he okay?”

“He’s...” Steve hesitated. “He’s sick and lonely. He was a little upset that we were decorating, but I think he’s more upset by the idea that he might be alone for the holiday.”

“Over my dead body,” Tony declared. 

Steve shot him a look. “A phrase I beg you not to use with him.”

Tony looked sheepish. “Yeah, okay.” His phone buzzed. “Oh, it’s Bruce. Thank God. Bruce!” he answered it. “Never turn your phone off for a week again, it was terrible.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. Bruce had told them before he’d left for his annual meditation retreat that he’d be unreachable. But Tony, who had never been deliberately unreachable in his life, had struggled with the concept. 

“Yeah, we’ve got a situation here,” Tony was saying. “The kid came home from MIT sick as a dog, and he won’t come out of his room because he’s afraid I’ll catch it. Steve’s been looking after him, but he’s not getting better.” He broke off, listening. “The flu, according to FRIDAY. A strain that’s not covered by the vaccine.” He paused again, and then he said, “Wait, Bruce, I’m going to put you on speaker.” He set the phone on the kitchen island between them. 

“Hi Bruce,” Steve said. 

“Hi Steve,” Bruce said. “How’s the patient?”

“Miserable,” Steve said. “I think he’d do a lot better if we could get him out of that room, but he’s being really stubborn about it.”

“Okay,” Bruce said. “I’m in the city right now. While I’m here, I’m going to pick up a prescription for Tamiflu.”

“It won’t work on him, will it?” Tony asked. 

“The Tamiflu’s not for Peter, it’s for you,” Bruce replied. “It’ll help boost your immune system against the virus. And you’ve had your pneumonia vaccine, right?”

“Yeah, weeks ago,” Tony said. “Along with the _totally useless_ flu vaccine.”

“All right, then with the Tamiflu and some reasonable precautions––like washing your hands and keeping surfaces clean and disinfected––there is no reason for Peter to quarantine himself.”

“And you’ll explain this to him?” Steve said. “Because I don’t think he’ll believe me.”

“I’ll explain it to him,” Bruce promised. “See you both in a few hours.”

“Thanks, Bruce,” Tony said, and disconnected. He sighed in relief. “Thank God. I couldn’t stand it anymore.”

“I know.” Reminded by Bruce, Steve went to the sink and washed his hands thoroughly. Then he dried them on a towel and turned back to hug Tony. 

Tony melted into the hug, pressing his forehead to Steve’s shoulder. “Thanks for taking such good care of him. I know I’ve been a pain in the ass. It’s just so hard knowing he’s in pain and I can’t do anything about it.”

“It’s okay,” Steve said. He kissed the top of Tony’s head. “Come on, let’s get the decorations out of storage.”

***

Bruce arrived back at the compound three hours later, while Steve and Tony were still trying to de-tangle the Christmas lights to put on the tree. They had an artificial one, because real trees were not good for people with bad lungs (which went some way toward explaining why Steve had been so sick every December before the serum), and every year they argued about putting it away with the lights still on it. Tony wanted to; Steve didn’t. Last year, Steve had won, and now the lights were a tangled mess, which Tony was somehow both annoyed and smug about. 

As promised, they’d video chatted Peter in via the TV in the living room. He wasn’t saying much, even when Steve accused Tony of deliberately tangling the lights in order to permanently win the argument. 

“Lies! Slander and lies!” Tony exclaimed, and then glanced at the TV, clearly hoping for a laugh. But Peter didn’t even smile. If anything, he looked even more miserable, as though seeing what he was missing was just making things worse. Steve and Tony exchanged a worried look out of range of the camera.

“Merry Christmas!” Bruce called as he stepped out of the elevator. “Flu Prevention Santa is here.”

“Flu Prevention Santa is my favorite Santa,” Tony said, and shoved himself to his feet. He gave Bruce a hug and took the Duane Reade bag from him. He started pulling things out and lining them up on the kitchen island: the white pharmacy bag with the Tamiflu, a container of Clorox wipes, an economy-size bottle of hand sanitizer, and a bottle of herbal supplements containing vitamin C, echinacea, and zinc. 

“You realize the science is still out on this stuff, right?” Tony said, shaking the bottle at Bruce. 

“I do,” Bruce said. “But they’re not going to kill you, and some people swear by them.” He leaned over so he could look at Peter through the camera. “Hi Peter. I hear you’re having a rough time.”

“Hi Bruce,” Peter said weakly. “Yeah.”

“Can I come and see you?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce headed toward Peter’s room. Tony gave Steve a look. 

“What?” Steve asked. 

“Aren’t you going to go with him?”

“No,” Steve replied. “Why would I?”

“Uh, because you’ve been taking care of Peter this whole time?”

“I’m not following. What does that have to do with––”

“Go with him!”

“Okay, okay!” Steve threw his hands up. “I’ll go with him. You are worse than a mama bear with an injured cub, I swear.”

Bruce had already let himself into Peter’s room and sat on the bed. He looked up as Steve came in, but he didn’t let it interrupt the exam that he was giving Peter. Steve sat at the very foot of the bed to watch. 

Bruce had Peter sitting up and was listening to his lungs through a stethoscope. “Deep breath,” he said softly. “Good job. One more. Good. How’re your ears feeling? Any soreness?”

“No.”

“Your throat?”

“Just some scratchiness. Not like when I had strep.”

“Good.” Bruce urged him to lie back down and picked up his wrist in his hand. He looked at his watch. 

It occurred to Steve, watching this, that FRIDAY had most of this information about Peter. She knew his pulse rate, his blood pressure, and his temperature. Bruce probably didn’t need to do the exam at all. But Peter was looking more relaxed than Steve had seen him since he’d come home, and Steve suspected that was probably down to the quiet aura of competence Bruce exuded in moments like this. 

“All right,” Bruce said at last, lowering Peter’s hand to the covers and tucking it by his side. “You definitely have the flu, but otherwise, you seem fine. You’re not even dehydrated, thanks to Steve looking after you so well. I feel comfortable declaring your self-imposed quarantine unnecessary.”

“But...” Peter frowned. “It’s not for me. Tony’s lungs––”

“Tony got his pneumonia vaccine,” Bruce interrupted gently. “And I’ve started him on a preventative course of Tamiflu.”

“But what if it doesn’t work?” Peter said. “Wouldn’t it be safer if I stayed in here?”

“Do you want to?” Bruce asked. 

“No,” Peter said, looking down at his hands. “I really don’t. But I couldn’t stand it if Tony got sick because of me.”

Bruce sighed. “Peter, look at me.” Peter looked up. “Life is a series of risks that we weigh against their rewards. Very little in life is truly safe. I admire you for trying to protect Tony, but he’s weighed the risks and the rewards. He wants to spend time with you, and he doesn’t want you to be alone during the holiday. He’s willing to take on some risk for that––with reasonable precautions, like the Tamiflu and the vaccine.”

Peter swallowed. “I don’t want to be alone during the holiday, either.”

“Then let us help you out to the living room, all right? We’ll make you some tea and put on a movie and you can watch the rest of us decorate. How does that sound?”

Peter looked suddenly near tears again. “It sounds amazing. Just––are you sure?”

“Yes,” Bruce said firmly. “I’m sure.” Peter still looked hesitant. Bruce reached out and took his hand, squeezed it. “Do you trust me?”

Peter nodded. 

“And do you trust I’d never take unacceptable risks with Tony’s health?”

Peter bit his lip. He nodded. “Okay.”

Bruce smiled. “Good.”

Steve helped Peter put on a bathrobe and shuffle out to the living room. Tony had been sitting on the sofa, staring at Peter’s bedroom door. He stood up. “Peter,” he said, looking inordinately relieved. He held his arms out, and Peter pulled away from Steve to stumble forward and collapse into them. “Hey,” Tony said, wrapping him up tight. Steve hung back but couldn’t resist watching. “Jesus, kid, you are burning up.”

“I am _so tired_ of being sick!” Peter burst out, leaning heavily into Tony. “It’s been days, and I still feel awful.”

“I know, Pete,” Tony said, palming the back of Peter’s head. “Let’s see if we can’t get you feeling a little better better by the time May gets here tomorrow.” He pulled him over to the sofa and pushed him down to sit on the chaise section. 

“Who else is coming?” Bruce asked, going to work on the tangle of Christmas lights that Steve and Tony had given up on. 

“Just May and Bucky,” Steve said, opening the first box labeled “X-mas Decor.” It was garland. “They’re driving up together tomorrow morning, staying through New Year’s. Natasha is with Clint’s family in Iowa. Everyone else is with their biological families this year.”

“It’s probably better that it’s a small group,” Bruce said quietly, glancing over at the sofa, where Tony was literally tucking Peter in. Peter was _smiling_. Steve was extremely relieved to see it. “We’ll keep things quiet.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Steve said, and started winding garland around a bannister. 

“Success,” Bruce said, and held out a completely detangled line of Christmas tree lights. 

“How the hell did you do that?” Steve demanded, staring. 

Bruce grinned. “Magic.” 

In theory, Tony was supposed to help decorate. In practice, he didn’t leave the couch again. He put on _A Muppets Christmas Carol_ , which was apparently Peter’s favorite Christmas movie, and Peter lay down so his head was resting in Tony’s lap on a cushion. 

“So how is MIT, Peter?” Bruce asked, as he climbed a ladder to start hanging ornaments at the top of the tree. “Other than finals week, which I gather was pretty horrendous.”

“Okay,” Peter said, sounding drowsy. Steve glanced over and saw that Tony was running his fingers through Peter’s hair. “Met some cool people. Learned some stuff.”

Tony snorted. “And for that, I pay full tuition.”

“I’ll tell you more later,” Peter mumbled. “Sleepy.”

“Sleep as much as you want, kid,” Tony said, rubbing his knuckles up and down the back of Peter’s neck. 

“Don’t let me sleep through Christmas,” Peter mumbled, and then seemed to pass out all at once. 

“Are you going to help?” Steve asked Tony. 

“Sure,” Tony said, glancing up. “There’s a big gap in the lights in the middle of the tree, and all the garland is scrunched at the top of the bannister.”

Steve glared. 

“What?” Tony asked with an innocent smile. “I’m helping. You want me to move and risk waking the kid up? My poor, sick, feverish kid?”

“All right, all right, you don’t need to lay it on that thick,” Steve muttered, while Bruce laughed. “You’re excused from helping. For now.”

Between Steve and Bruce, they got the tree decorated and made inroads on the other boxes. At that point, Steve realized that it was almost time for dinner, so he called a pause to the decorating and went to see what they had in the fridge that wasn’t already slated for Christmas Eve. He should probably make the sauce for the lasagna ahead of time, he thought, just to avoid having too much to do tomorrow.

“It’s snowing,” Bruce said in surprise, looking outside. “I didn’t think it’d be cold enough. It was forty-five degrees in the city.”

“Welcome to upstate,” Tony said. “We’re supposed to have a bunch of fresh snow for Christmas.”

“That’ll be nice. I feel like hot cider,” Bruce said, turning away from the windows. “Want some, Tony?”

“Sure.”

“Steve?”

Hot cider sounded delicious, and they even had some from the apples on the orchard at the back of the property. “Please.”

“Me too,” Peter mumbled. 

“Only people who are awake get cider,” Tony teased him. “Are you awake?”

Peter sighed. “Thinking about it.”

“You think your stomach can handle cider?” Steve asked. 

“I think so.” Peter opened his eyes. “It sounds good.”

Steve glanced at Bruce, who shrugged. “If it sounds good to you, we’ll try it,” Bruce said. “You need calories.”

Steve decided to add extra veggies and chicken and gnocchi––and possibly a little cream––to the chicken soup he’d made for Peter earlier in the week, turning it into something more stew-like that would feed all of them. He started chopping, while Bruce poured cider into a pot on the stove and started heating it up. 

The room smelled good, like soup and cider and a balsam and fir candle Bruce had lit because the artificial tree didn’t smell like anything on its own. There were carols playing softly in the background, and it was snowing out. The last few days had been stressful; Steve had been much more worried about Peter than he had let himself realize––not so much because of the flu, which he’d been certain that Peter’s immune system would conquer eventually, but because of his anxiety. Steve still wasn’t sure what to do about Peter’s fear that Tony might be taken from him at any moment––a fear that Steve had to admit had a fair amount of grounding in reality. 

“How are you doing, kid?” he heard Tony ask Peter. 

“Better,” Peter said quietly. Steve glanced up from slicing carrots in time to see Peter snuggle into Tony’s side. “It’s been... um. Not good. Not that Steve didn’t take good care of me, he really did, but I still didn’t feel... safe.”

Tony sighed. “It wasn’t a picnic for me either. I didn’t like not being able to help you. We should have figured this out way sooner.” He went quiet. “I can’t promise I’m never going to get sick. I can’t promise I’ll never catch something from you, either.”

“I know,” Peter said. Steve ducked his head to concentrate on the carrots. “I mean, logically I know that. But I was already kind of ramped up from finals when I got sick, and then I just... I don’t know.” Peter swallowed audibly. 

“Hey,” Tony said quietly. “It’s okay. We worked it out. Everything’s fine now.”

“Yeah.” Steve glanced up to see Peter fall kind of face-first into Tony’s shoulder. Tony ducked his head and pressed his nose into Peter’s hair. Steve looked back down at the cutting board, feeling as though he was intruding.

Bruce set Steve’s mug of cider on the counter next to the cutting board and carried the others into the living room. “Here we are. I added some cinnamon and cloves.” 

Peter sat up and accepted his mug of cider, wrapping both hands around it. “That smells really good.” 

“Just drink it slowly. If you start to feel nauseous, stop.” Bruce frowned at Tony without handing over his mug. “Wash your hands first.”

“What?”

“You can either use the hand sanitizer or you can wash your hands, one of the two.”

Tony rolled his eyes even as he stood up. “It has been literally forty years since anyone told me to wash my hands.” He pumped three pumps of hand sanitizer into his hands and made a big show of slathering it on all the way up to his elbows. “Happy?”

“Exceedingly.” Bruce relinquished Tony’s cider and then sat in an armchair with his own mug. The conversation turned scientific, as Bruce asked about a class Peter had taken with someone he apparently knew. 

Steve turned his attention back to the soup, adding vegetables and cut up cooked chicken to the pot that was already simmering. More salt and pepper, a splash of cream. It was the kind of food that was good for a cold winter’s evening, and good for healing. It was the sort of thing his mother would have made. 

Peter ate a whole bowl of the stuff when it was finally ready––the most Steve had seen him eat in one sitting since he’d come home. Steve exchanged a glance with Tony, and then with Bruce, and all three of them breathed a collective sigh of relief. 

***

Peter was quiet as Steve changed the sheets on his bed again that night. Tony had gone to take a quick phone call from Pepper about something SI-related; it was the first time in hours that Peter hadn’t been glued to Tony’s side. “You okay?” Steve asked, trying not to sound too worried. “Is dinner sitting all right?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Peter said. “I’m just tired.”

Steve finished stripping the sheets off the bed and started fitting a clean bottom sheet on. “FRIDAY said your fever is down. You might be well on the mend by Christmas Day.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “That’d be nice.” He looked at the door. “Tony’s been gone a while.”

“He’ll be back,” Steve assured him. He tucked the topsheet in at the corners and started rifling through the laundry basket for the pillow cases. He didn’t miss the way Peter kept glancing at the door, waiting for Tony to appear. 

Steve was flipping the quilt out over the bed when Tony finally did return, phone in hand. “Sorry about that,” Tony said. “Hopefully that’s the last SI thing I have to deal with until after the holiday. Pepper said for me to wish you a speedy recovery,” he added, ghosting his hand over Peter’s hair.

“That’s nice of her,” Peter said, leaning against Tony’s hip. 

“There,” Steve said, smoothing the last wrinkle out of the quilt. “All fresh and ready for you, Peter.”

“Thanks.” Peter let Tony help him stand up and shuffle the few steps to the bed, not even protesting the hovering. He crawled under the covers and curled up on his side. 

“You’ve got water and your phone is plugged in here,” Tony said. “But if you need me, all you have to do is tell FRIDAY. You need anything else?”

There was a long hesitation. Finally Peter shook his head. 

Tony frowned. “Are you sure? I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling us.”

Peter swallowed. He picked at a loose thread on the quilt. “Could you... could you stay? Just until I fall asleep, not––not all night.”

“Yeah, of course,” Tony replied, eyebrows raised. “Why all the drama about it, kid?”

Peter shrugged, not really looking at either of them. Tony sat down on the empty half of the bed and put his feet up. He was already wearing pajama pants and an oversized, nearly threadbare MIT hoodie. Steve thought there was maybe a fifty percent chance that Tony would make it back to their bed tonight. 

Steve leaned over to kiss him. “Did you take your Tamiflu?”

“Yes.”

“And the scientifically dubious supplements?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“And when did you last wash your hands?”

“While I was on the phone with Pepper. I even sang the stupid birthday song to myself so I’d wash them long enough.”

“Okay. Sleep tight, Peter.”

“Thanks.” Peter rolled over, so his head rested against Tony’s hip, and looked up at Steve. “For everything.”

Steve shook his head. “It was nothing.” 

“It wasn’t nothing,” Peter said. “I mean it. Thank you.”

Steve nodded, accepting Peter’s gratitude. He kissed Tony one last time and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

***

Two hours later, after finishing the sauce for Tony’s mother’s lasagna, Steve checked on them. Tony was sprawled out on top of the covers, with Peter tucked into his side, head resting on his chest. One of Tony’s arms was wrapped protectively around him, and his head was tilted back. He was snoring lightly. 

Steve took a picture and sent it to Tony’s phone. Then he got the warmest throw from the living room and tucked it over Tony, careful not to jostle and wake Peter. 

Despite his best efforts, Tony stirred. “Mmm. Whassit?”

“Just me. You looked cold.” Steve kissed Tony on the forehead. 

“Mmm,” Tony mumbled, eyelashes fluttering. “Love you.”

“Love you, too. See you in the morning.”

Tony sighed and went still, his head falling into a more comfortable-looking position, tilted to the side and resting against Peter’s. Steve smiled to himself and went to bed.

***

Tony woke to pale morning light was filtering through the blinds. He blinked, disoriented, until he remembered where he was: Peter’s room.

“Hey, Pete,” he said, nudging him. Peter stirred with a grumble. “Wake up. It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Oh,” Peter said, sleepily. Tony smiled, so fond he could barely stand it. Sleepy Peter was one of his very favorites. “Oh God.”

“What?” Tony asked, bracing himself. FRIDAY should have woken him if Peter’s fever had gotten worse in the night, but maybe he was feeling sick to his stomach. 

“I feel _so much better_. Holy shit. Uh, sorry,” Peter added sheepishly. “I just... wow.”

“FRIDAY, what’s Peter’s temperature?” Tony asked. 

“Just over one hundred degrees,” FRIDAY replied. “That is still considered elevated for him, but it is much lower than it has been at any point since he arrived at the compound.”

“I can actually use my brain, this is amazing.” Peter sighed. “Best Christmas present ever.”

“Well, you haven’t seen what I got you yet,” Tony said, smirking. “Seriously, though, you have no idea how glad I am to hear you’re feeling better.”

“So much better,” Peter said. “Like, I’m still kind of tired and weak––I wouldn’t want to try and do any superheroing right now, that’s for sure––but I don’t feel like I’m dying. Oh man.” He rolled over and burrowed into the blankets. “Do we have to get up?”

“I mean... eventually.” Tony caught sight of the clock. It was a little after seven. Barnes and May wouldn’t get here until at least nine, maybe closer to ten. There was a lot to do today––Tony hadn’t wrapped a single present yet, for one thing, including Peter’s––but none of it had to be done _right then._

“We have a few minutes,” Tony said. “Merry Christmas, kid.”

Peter looked up at him, his eyes bright for the first time in days. “Merry Christmas, Tony.”

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone!


End file.
